Three Days Four Nights

Wow.  This is officially the longest I've ever gone without posting.  In eight years.  I've been tired, and haven't felt inspired.  I almost re-wrote that sentence because I didn't mean for it to rhyme, but really, that's what it was.  Tired and uninspired. Why am I not surprised that the first post in a month is about none other than my handsome husband?

Three days.  That's all we had.  Well, five if you want to get technical, but I don't because a Sunday night arrival, and a pre-noon departure does not a day make.  It took me at least a day to believe that he was really here.  This was a surprise visit that came out of nowhere because he had to make a trip to Arizona, so I wasn't expecting to see him any time soon.  I didn't believe it when he told me he was coming two weeks prior.  I didn't believe it when, I got his flight itinerary.  I didn't believe it when I picked him up from the airport, and wrapped my arms around his neck.  I still didn't believe it the next morning when we were laying under clear blue skies at our favorite picnic spot in Balboa Park watching airplanes roar above our heads.

It was a perfect day.  The weather warmed into the 80's just in time for his arrival, and neither one of us had eaten those juicy Italian Subs from Capriotti's in a while.  The next day I took him on a date to The Lot.  It didn't bother us that our showtime was cancelled due to technical difficulties and that we would be seeing Get Out at 3:30pm instead of 2:00 because we had nowhere to be except right there with each other.  Instead of eating inside the theater we ordered another drink, and ate burgers at outdoor the bar all the while soaking up the ambiance.  We were refunded the cost of the tickets for our trouble, which really wasn't any trouble at all.

Just when I fully and truly believed my husband was really home, is also about when it started to hit me that he would soon leave.  On Monday, Thursday seemed so far away, and I refused to acknowledge that his presence was temporary, but by Tuesday night, I couldn't help it.  One day left.  We met his co-workers for lunch, and sat outside eating Mexican food.  Then we stopped for yogurt, before heading to Best Buy for a new Blue Ray player, because I had to get in at least one Honey Do while the getting was good. 
He was jet lagged the whole time.  Early to rise, and early to get tired.  He managed to stay awake those first two night, just because he didn't want me waking him up and marching him to bed, and he knows I would.  With only so few nights home I wouldn't allow him to spend a single one of them sleeping on the couch.  It was enough that I could watch him sleep, so on the fourth night I let him doze off, and he didn't complain when I woke him up after two hours and marched him up to bed.

It was so nice doing even the little things we always do together.  I held off on watching The Walking Dead on Sunday so we could watch it together on Monday.  I got to watch him dart around the kitchen cooking our Blue Apron meal in half the time it would take me, using proper cutting technique I will never master, and then swoop in to finish off the dishes while he started the movie.  We did that spur of the moment run to Mary's for the best donuts in town.  When it was time to eat them he want straight for the milk.  He doesn't believe in eating donuts without milk, but he saved a little bit for me because I don't need my own glass; just a big sip after my last bite.

I couldn't believe he was here, and then I couldn't believe I was at work.

I dropped him off at the airport, and was slogging through emails by 10:30am.  It was surreal.  Almost as if the last 3 days had never happened.  Getting to see him at all was great, but another airport drop, and another good-bye smacked me in the face with the reality that even though we've been living separately for seven months (!!), he's been gone long enough to be moving into a second apartment in two weeks, and we still have another nine months to go. 

He'll be in Arizona this week, before he heads back to Germany, and I thought I'd like it that we could at least share the same time zone for a while, but oddly enough, I don't think I do.  I've grown accustomed to counting ahead nine hours to figure out what he might be doing, and I'm used to not doing things here at the same time that he does them there.  When I'm on my way to work in the morning, he's on his way home.  When I'm powering through the middle of my work day, he's winding down for bed.  When I'm winding down for bed, he's getting in that last hour of sleep.  It might not make any sense, but when he's nine hours ahead, and our days are so out of sync it somehow makes the distance between us feel less real.  He's doing his thing in his time zone and I'm doing my thing in mine.

I don't like it that we are doing the same things at the same time, but can't do them together.  I don't like it that we are both going to sleep at the same time, but can't sleep together or watching the same TV shows at the same time, but not watching them together.  I don't like it that he's gone, period, but this is how it is right now and I'm so grateful for these visits in between that break up the time.

Seven months down, nine months to go...